


Tackle

by Tafferling



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M, Flailing, Flirting, Flyfishing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: Chris is a practical man.Flirtingisn't necessarily practical.  But he tries.





	Tackle

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to "[Imagine Chris flirting, but having trouble since it's been so long."](https://tafferfield.tumblr.com/post/163683978751/imagine-chris-flirting)

**I** t’s the fifth time in a row now that she sees him standing by the shallow bend of the gently bubbling river. 

He’s hard to miss, what with the six or so feet of broad shoulders, and how his fishing line whispers in wide and flawless arcs across the icy water. The line catches the early evening sun, glints golden with each cast, and more importantly: it catches  _fish_.

Which hers doesn’t. Hers has been too busy getting snagged on the shrubs or trees behind her, or coming back up from the water with weeds hanging from the hook. Except she can’t see any bloody weeds anywhere in the river, and that’s not how fly fishing is supposed to work.

But it’s not a complete loss, because the stranger is fun to watch, even if trying to copy him almost had her fishing her own eye out. She likes his rhythm, first and foremost, the collected roll of his shoulders as he casts. And how he lightly pulls the line back, teasing the fish with every tug. He makes it look real easy— and  _okay_ — she’ll admit it: he makes it look good.

He reels his line in, tucks it up against the rod, and then, for a little while, stands still. Like he’s thinking, lost in some thought or the other while the river murmurs on. And then he looks at her, and she’s quick to pretend she wasn’t staring. Because that’s rude.

“Hey.”

She’s mid-cast when he says that. And the throw almost hits him on the way out. He ducks it.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” she babbles. The line drops. Tangles. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Did I get you?”

“No. You didn’t.” He stoops over, picks up the line, and instead of her having to sort through knots, unravels it while he comes up to her.

Six or so feet was correct. He’s tall. Very. And has arms big enough to swing off, if she was so inclined. But there isn’t anything threatening about him— if anything, he looks reserved. A rugged sort of well-mannered, all inclusive with a  _half-past-six-pm_  shadow darkening the sharp features of his jaw, and a controlled sort of chaos to his short hair. There’s a little grey in it. Wisps at best, but it’s there. But it’s his eyes that catch her attention the most. They’re attentive. Heavy. And she thinks they’re a lovely, muddy colour.

“Do you have any spare flies? I just—” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, back to his fishing spot. “—lost my last one.”

“Uhm, sure. Yes. Of course,” she says and makes for her tackle box, right before she spins around again and snatches up the line he’s offering up to her still. Did he just smile at her spinning around awkwardly? Probably. Likely. But that’s fine, she has plenty of time to feel embarrassed once he’s off with the bait.

“Thanks.” He’s polite when she hands it to him. Up to the point even where he digs into into a trouser pocket and tries to offer her a folded note of money.  _Pffft…_

“No, it’s fine,” she says, and he quirks a brow at her.

“You sure?"

"Absolutely. You go off and catch things with it, they never bite for me anyway.”

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. For a few moments, in which she idly wraps the line around her finger, and a couple of fish taunt her by snapping at mosquitoes dancing on the water’s surface, he stands still and looks at the fly. Or at his boots. Either or.

“If you want,” he starts. Pauses. “I mean, I can show you a few tricks?” He nods to the rod in her hands, then out to the river. “You have the basics down already, but your aim needs work.”

And so they get to fix that— the whole  _Land the fly where there’s a fish_ deal that she couldn’t get the hang of. From here, to when her arms get tired from the constant casting, she only almost hooks him once with the line. He laughs at that and puts on a set of shades that’d been dangling from the collar of his shirt. 

When the line snags, she thinks she’s caught some more weeds, but then the rod jerks with her first proper bite. Whooping, she reels in the catch: a trout. 

“Good job,” he approves, even if the fish is too small to bother with, and why that makes her feel proud, she’ll have to address later. For now, she’s happy just standing there with the line raised high while he grabs the flopping thing. “Toss it back in?”

She nods, and he digs a set of small pliers from his cargo bottoms. His hands move quick as he works the hook free with a practised twist. And then he gets down on his haunches and gently places the wiggling fish in shallow water. It takes off, wobbly but free.

He’s still down on the ground when he looks up and asks: “Do you like beer?”

She frowns. “Huh?”

“Beer. I have a few cold beers. Do you want one?”

_Blink. Blink._ “Sure?”

A smile hikes up his lips, and he indicates  _Let’s go then_ , with a light tilt of his head. Four steps in and he slows down to match her pace, and extends his hand.

“I’m Chris." 

The handshake is warm. And firm, but without the discomfort of an unnecessary squeeze. It also makes her hand feel small, though she can’t think of any reason why that’d be a bad thing. 

Back at his spot, he points for her to sit, indicating a log of wood that she suspects he’d moved here at some point. His gear is stacked neatly next to it. She sits, pulls her knees up a little, and he walks over to the shoreline to fish a six pack of bottles from the chilled water.  _Neat_. And as he sits next to her, the log shifting slightly, her eyes catch on the half open tackle box by his feet.

It’s full of flies.

"Huh,” she says and looks up at him, right as he wrenches the cap off one of the bottles with nothing but the hand that’d just shaken hers all careful like. He swipes at the box with his boot. It falls shut. “You were really running low there, weren’t you?”

Chris shrugs and smiles, the twist of his lips a little rueful around the edges.

“Hm? Yeah. Absolutely was.”


End file.
